Welcome
by trojangymnast08
Summary: An important event in Snape's life.


Disclaimer: JK Rowling is my hero for making up the entire world of this story.

A.N. I'm thinking of doing other important points in Snape's life... let me know what you think.

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He leaned against the wall of the shower, his nerves finally getting the better of him. He wasn't sure he was ready for this, but there was nothing for it now. He had to go through with it. Once a person decided to become a follower of the Dark Lord, there was no backing out. He'd seen people try to take that route, and then he had never seen them again. _Get a hold of yourself_ _Snape_ he scolded himself, shaking off his disturbing thoughts. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen proof that it was a worthy cause. He was not an impressionable person by nature. It had taken months for him to fully believe that this was worth it. Although, truthfully, by that point he was in so deep that there was no possible way he could back out. He straightened up, grabbing a bottle of soap. Following the instruction he had been given, he poured an small amount of the soap on a rough pad, then proceed to scour his skin with it in an attempt to purify himself. He scrubbed until he was red and raw, not because he had been told to, but because the pain was a welcome distraction from his mounting nervousness. He shut the water off and stepped out of the shower, letting the cool air dry his skin as per his instruction. He then donned the long, black robe he had been given, pulling the hood up over his head, covering his face. He peered in the mirror, scrutinizing his emaciated features; he was glad that the hood hid the fear he knew was visible in ever part of his face. He turned from the mirror, and disapparated without another thought.

He appeared with a loud crack in an empty graveyard. The silhouette of a large house was visible in the distance. He lifted his left sleeve to check his watch. It wasn't an impressive piece of jewelry, but it was the only one he wore. His mother had given it to him when he was young, and thinking on it now he only wore it out of habit. He had no loyalty to either of his parents anymore. He undid the warn leather clasp and tossed the watch behind a headstone. He had use for it no longer. He was starting a new life.

He wandered around the cemetery, absently running his hands over the old grave markers, his nerves returning full force. His heart was racing. He knew he needed to calm himself before they arrived, but he wasn't sure he could. He sat on a nearby headstone; his nerves making his knees feel weak and his hands shaking. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't hold him up. He wanted to do a spell to calm himself, but he had been told to leave his wand behind, and he hadn't dared to disobey. He was getting dizzy. He took a deep breath, and put his head between his legs. He drew in another breath, and let it out slowly. He felt his heart rate gradually slowing. He tried again to stand up, and this time found his legs were able to hold his weight. When he felt steady, he began to walk the graveyard again, reading the headstones to keep himself occupied while he waited.

A dozen loud cracks suddenly rent the air, and he was encircled by twelve robed, masked figures. He immediately tried to throw on a casual, collected demeanor. The mask of the calm person he was attempting to portray convinced nobody. He was trying to hard, and he knew it. He had not been ready for the crowd of people. He supposed they were meant to be witnesses. Maybe they were there to make sure nothing happened to him, but it was unlikely. This was a group of men who were known to kill for pure entertainment. They weren't there to protect him. The circle split. A tall, imposing figure walked into the middle to join him. He looked up to see the Dark Lord slowly advancing towards him, and a sense of terror greater than any he had ever felt hit him, paralyzing him. He couldn't move as that terrible being, the leader of a group that called themselves the Death Eaters, approached him. Voldemort stopped a few feet short of him. The circle of Death Eaters closed and Severus heard a low murmur begin. A palpable energy filled the air. There was sudden pressure that pushed at his body from all directions. He felt as though he were being sucked through a tube that was several sizes too small to fit his body. It was a feeling that reminded him vaguely of apparating, but it was stronger, more painful. His head felt as though it were going to explode. He closed his eyes, willing it to be over. Then, just as suddenly as the pressure appeared, it faded, and he could open his eyes again.

"Severus Snape." A cold voice declared.

"Y-yes," he stuttered hesitantly in return. He was scared out of his mind. He head was spinning, and he couldn't focus and the man speaking to him. He had to focus.

"You wish to join the ranks of the Dark Lord?"

"Yes." He still hesitated before answering. This was bad; he needed to be more positive in his decision. The Dark Lord would sense his hesitation, and then he would be dead.

"You will do anything for the cause presented to you by your Lord?"

"Yes," he responded finally feeling more confident. This was what he wanted, what he had been waiting for.

"You swear your fidelity to your Lord and his cause?"

"Yes," he said with another slight pause. "Stop questioning yourself you idiot," he thought to himself. "This is it, your moment of glory. This is what you wanted, to serve a worthy cause." And he did want it. More than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

"You are willing to risk anything and everything, sparing nothing, not even your own life for your Lord?"

"Yes," he said fervently. He wanted to be a part of this. No, he realized, he _needed_ to be a part of this. He needed to belong. He had always wanted it, but he had never had it. He had always needed it, and it was never given to him. Here was his chance. He could belong. He could finally prove himself. He _would_ finally prove himself.

"Very well." The Dark Lord covered the space between them in two short steps. He drew out his wand, and reached forward to lift the left sleeve of Severus' robes. He gripped Severus' left wrist with his right hand. He murmured the word "Brazmordre", a guttural incantation, at the same time touching the tip of his wand to Severus' forearm.

It was pain, pain like nothing he'd ever felt before. A flash of white exploded in front of Severus' eyes at the exact moment the Dark Lord's wand touched him. He dimly felt his knees give out and hit the ground before the pain overtook his entire body. He couldn't hear and couldn't see. He had no body. There was nothing left of him, he was being destroyed by the pain. He was drowning; there was nothing but pain. He was dieing, disappearing. He couldn't' see. He couldn't hear. He could feel nothing except the white-hot pain filling his body. Then it faded, contracted to a single point where the wand of the Dark Lord touched his skin. There was nothing else. The whole of him was focused on that one, single point. The wand moved. It was branding him, searing a mark into his skin. Deeper and deeper it went. It was burning into his very essence. Searing into his soul. He could feel the design as it was made. First the skull was made, intricately, almost lovingly drawn, with care and precision. Each precise movement was tearing at his soul, ripping it apart. Then he created the serpent. It twisted around the skull, working its way out of its mouth. He could feel the ease with which the Dark Lord burned the mark into his flesh, his soul. There was another flash, red this time. His whole being was consumed by pain again. He was on fire. He felt as if he were being ripped apart. His entire body was fighting the completion of the mark. Then it was over. He could feel his cheek pressed against the cool grass under him. Someone was screaming. He realized the loathsome noise was coming from him. He shut his mouth. He stood up, feeling as though his body were detached from itself. He looked at the circle of people around him, and then looked up into the face of the Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord's lips moved, his cold voice forming one word. One single word.

"Welcome."


End file.
